But it is almost certain that you, too, have been in love. If so, you will no more think the slight words, the timid looks, the tremulous touches, by which two human souls approach each other gradually, like two little quivering rain-streams, before they mingle into one—you will no more think these things trivial than you will think the first-detected signs of coming spring trivial, though they be but a faint, indescribable something in the air and in the song of the birds, and the tiniest perceptible budding of the hedgerow branches. Those slight words and looks and touches are part of the soul’s language; and the finest language, I believe, is chiefly made up of unimposing words, such as ‘light,’ ‘sound,’ ‘stars,’ ‘music,’—words really not worth looking at, or hearing, in themselves, any more than ‘chips’ or ‘sawdust:’ it is only that they happen to be the signs of something unspeakably great and beautiful. I am of opinion that love is a great and beautiful thing too; and if you agree with me, the smallest signs of it will not be chips and sawdust to you: they will rather be like those words, ‘light’ and ‘music,’ stirring the long-winding fibres of your memory, and enriching your present with your most precious past.
– George Eliot